


The Bottom of a Bottle

by criesmom



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Other, Pre-Hogwarts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-02
Updated: 2015-12-02
Packaged: 2018-05-04 11:24:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5332400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/criesmom/pseuds/criesmom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of pieces focusing on Remus/Sirius' relationship. Not in chronological order and also doesn't really have a plot, just bits and pieces</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Remus is sad after the death of James, Lily and Peter and questions his relationship with Sirius. Content warning: alcohol, implied suicidal thoughts, death mention

Remus John Lupin stared blankly at the bottle of firewhiskey on the table next to him. He stared at it for a minute. Then another.

Two minutes became five minutes, became ten minutes became half an hour. The hollow feeling in his chest sat there, immovable and oppressive. It felt heavy and ached so numbingly that he could feel the tingling feeling of it in his fingers and his toes. Like fading pins and needles that would not leave him. He was so still, so perfectly frozen, that it would seem he believed that staying that way and letting the cavern take him over would allow it to leave. That if he let it consume him, he would be able to move on.

An hour. An hour and a half. Two. Still the feeling stuck to his insides and made his teeth hurt. The nerve endings in the elbow he had rested on the table quivered as if he had just hit his funny bone, though his joints felt as if they hadn’t moved in days.

Two and a half hours. He sighed, breaking eye contact with the bottle and shifting slowly, convinced he could feel his bones creaking. His head swam from the sudden movement, small as it was.

He circled his hand around the bottle and lifted it to twist it open, filling the two glasses with a finger each. He set the bottle down again, not bothering to screw the cap on but placing it over the opening, then took one glass and tapped it to the other.

His hand paused on its way to his mouth and he lifted it slightly before bringing it to him and drinking it in one go.

 _I_ _should’ve done this in the first place_ , he thought vaguely as the firewhiskey trailed a burning sensation down his throat and into his stomach, reaching warmth out into his chest and his extremities. The dull longing feeling eased a little, and he found it easier to breathe as he filled his glass with a further two fingers, pausing before sloshing more into the glass. His bones and muscles started to ease up, protesting less than they had the first time he lifted the glass to his mouth. Though this time, he didn’t hesitate before the rim of the glass touched his lips.

He vaguely realised that he must have gotten cold, sitting there so still for so long. He moved his toes in his shoes, a few of them popping, and he pulled his legs together, putting a hand between his knees in an effort to keep it warm. As the firewhiskey spread through him again, he felt he didn’t need to keep his hand there, but did anyway.

The air around him felt delicate and thick at the same time. Like the aching feeling had escaped his chest and filled the room, like it could all come crashing down on him if he disturbed it too much. He pushed this thought out of his mind with force as he filled his glass again, this time putting a little more in the second one on the table as well.

He tilted his glass slightly to the other and nodded at it. “Wouldn’t want you to feel left out now, would we?”

He drained the firewhiskey in two parts, the second attempt leaking out of the corner of his mouth. He used the back of his hand to wipe at it lazily, feeling a different tingling in his hands than before.

After a few more glasses and a spillage down the front of his cardigan later, the last inkling of firewhiskey drained pathetically into his glass. Knowing full well there was none left, he shook the bottle in the hopes of getting everything he could from it. After draining his glass he looked at the untouched one on the table again.

Reaching forward over the table, his hands shook as he tipped the contents from the spare glass to his own, laughing at himself. “I’m sure you understand.”

The last of the firewhiskey sitting pleasantly warm in his stomach, he slouched down in his chair, lacing his fingers and resting them just above his belt. His vision had become blurred around the edges and he knew that, though he had stopped drinking, he would continue to get drunk.

He dragged a hand down his face, the contact feeling strange and muffled, as though he was feeling it through a thin piece of scratchy fabric. The act of filling and draining the glass had distracted him a little, given him something to do. Now, with his hands idle, he felt the texture of the air again and felt he couldn’t escape it.

Nevertheless, he tried to. Heaving himself out of his chair, he swayed on his feet for a moment as his head reeled. The firewhiskey was no longer warm and reassuring, but now sat uncomfortably in his stomach, burning his insides like bile.

He waited for things to settle before moving to the kettle on the bench next to the table and putting it on. He could use his wand to boil the water in it, but the Muggle way gave him something to do.

He opened a few cupboards before he found the right one, taking down a mug and teabags and closing it again. Repeating the process, he opened various drawers and found a teaspoon. Upon opening the fridge, he winced and held up a hand to shield his eyes from the stark, white light. Once he had adjusted, he found a bottle of milk just as the kettle came to a boil.

He stared again out of the window over the sink as he stirred his tea. There was no teabag in it anymore, though it had milk and he had put in his usual amount of sugar. He stood there, absently stirring long after the sugar dissolved, staring out into the street two stories below.

He froze suddenly has he was overcome by the feeling – the _need_ – to fling himself out of that window. The window felt a lot bigger and the street a lot further away than they had before.

Remus was brought out of his horrified stupor by the sound of metal on china and hot tea spilling onto his hand resting on the bench. He took in a hiss of breath and wrung his hand before picking up his mug.

He trailed down the hallway to his room, trying not to think about windows. Trying not to think about a lot of things.

About James and Lily. About their bodies, their funerals – who would be organising them? Would they be cremated or buried? He had always felt that choice said a lot about a person, yet he had never had the discussion with James.

About poor Harry. About who had him right now. Would they take him to the funeral? Was it a friend or family member? James’ or Lily’s? It couldn’t be a friend, not with …

The name died in his mind and he winced.

Not with the situation with him, and if Harry wasn’t with Remus then what other friend was there?

Remus didn’t know many of Lily’s friends. There was Peter, one of his, one of James’, one of … his. But he was gone now, too. And there again were more questions. Who was going to tell Peter’s mother? Would there be a funeral for him as well?

And, finally, Remus allowed his thoughts to turn to Sirius. What about Sirius? What about the events of two nights ago, with firewhiskey on their lips just before they fell asleep? What did that mean now, after what happened at Godric’s Hollow?

Remus gritted his teeth as he put his mug down on his bedside table. He made to unbutton his shirt, but every movement made his head swim.

The meaning of that night hadn’t changed after the death of James and Lily. It hadn’t changed since Harry was taken away from the scene of his parents’ deaths. It hadn’t changed since Remus found out one of his best friends was dead. It hadn’t changed since he found out about the death of another earlier that day. It hadn’t changed when he found out it was by Sirius’ hands that Peter had died. It hadn’t changed, because Sirius hadn’t changed in that time, in those mere forty eight hours. Sirius hadn’t changed, he was just never the person Remus thought he was.

And there it was, the leaded, sinking, aching, longing feeling in his chest. Taking up all the space in his torso and out into his arms, his legs. Even his head, already heavy and feeling full of lukewarm water was filled with that daunting feeling of emptiness. Remus was all on his own now. His friends either dead or just as good.

He lay down on the sheets, not bothering to get between them. He felt one tear disappear into his hair line while the other tickled his face as it slid down the edge of his nose, making him want to sneeze. He never got so far before the feeling devoured him and he fell asleep.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set in their seventh year at Hogwarts over one of the holidays. The marauders go to Remus' house for drinks and they all end up staying the night

There was something really weird about waking up to someone who wasn’t a family member or just a friend. Because, of course, Remus had shared a bed with people loads of times, but never like that. There was something weird about it, but also something really lovely.  
Maybe it was the fact that it felt somewhat domestic, sleeping together, but not sleeping together. Just sharing a bed and a duvet and having his head so close to Sirius’ and sleeping so close but not really doing anything apart from sleeping.  
They were watching television at about 4 o’clock in the morning when Remus’ parents came in to check on them. They were in their pyjamas and picked up empty bottles and cups and didn’t really say anything. Remus thought Sirius felt a bit uncomfortable, so he got up and helped them carry the things out into the hall. Hope whispered to him to keep the door open, which was hilarious, and of course he had to shoot back into his room and tell Sirius.  
Because they were watching a children’s cartoon about aliens with magic powers, so why would they need to leave the door open? It was 4 in the morning and their friends were all next door asleep and his parents were obviously at home so why would they need to leave the door open? But they didn’t exactly say they wouldn’t do anything that would mean keeping the door open. Neither of them said they would never go there, they just said they weren’t there at the time Remus’ mother told them to keep the door open.  
Remus fell asleep pretty soon after that. He told Sirius that he could keep watching it without him. Sirius woke him up at 6 o’clock, (though he couldn’t remember why), by stabbing his dumb finger into Remus’ dumb arm.   
For some reason he woke up instantly and didn’t fall back asleep again like he did every day. Remus could sleep through alarms. He could sleep through herds of children screaming and throwing couch cushions at him. He could sleep through his very tall, very large uncle jumping on him. But Remus didn’t sleep through Sirius prodding at his arm after two hours of sleep.   
They talked for a while about nothing and Sirius told Remus about how, during the time that he was asleep and Sirius was wide awake, he kept staring at the ceiling and he could see this green eye in the middle of it and it was like one of the things on the show they were watching and it was looking at the door. Sirius told him about how the whole night it was freaking him out and he couldn’t stop looking at it. Remus told him that he could see it too, and that it was the lightbulb.  
They talked about dreams, Remus thought. It was already a bit blurry even as he remembered it two days later. They talked about how Remus’ friend used to use him as a hot water bottle when he was 15, and how looking back on it he should’ve known she was taking advantage of him. Sirius was shivering a lot and Remus was roasty toasty. He wanted to offer to be his hot water bottle. A consensual hot water bottle. But he knew that there was this bubble around the two of them, where the rest of the house was silent and dark and so was Remus’ room, but he could just see the outline of Sirius’ face and they were whispering and he didn’t want to burst that. He wanted to keep that moment and he didn’t want to ruin it by touching Sirius. Because they were in the same bed under the same duvet but they weren’t touching. Remus wanted so badly to touch him. Not in a sexual way, just contact. He wanted to kiss him again for the first time after they last kissed, two and a half years ago. But he didn’t want to break that moment that lasted two and a half hours.  
It was lovely. Of course, they talked nearly every day, but they don’t see each other very often and because of that – Remus didn’t know if Sirius noticed it, but he did because he noticed everything – when they did have time together, just the two of them without James or Peter, they had trouble keeping up a conversation if there wasn’t someone else to help. A third party. But on that Friday, Sirius got in the car with Remus and Hope, and Remus was still crying a bit because he’d just been discharged and they were listening to a tape Remus had bought that day. And they talked the whole 30 minutes to Remus’ house. And the whole hour and a half before the others got there. And the whole three hours after the others when to bed at 1:30 a.m. And the whole two and a half hours when they woke up. They talked and talked and there was nothing awkward. Any silence that was there was comfortable. It was lovely.  
Remus knew he told him all the time, but Sirius was very important to me. He was Remus’ best friend and he loved him with all of his sorry heart. Remus sometimes thought that maybe he said I love you so often to so many people, that they thought it didn’t mean anything. But he said it so often because his friend died and he couldn’t remember what the last thing he said to her was, and he wanted it to have been that he loved her. When he said I love you, it was because he was terrified that he wouldn’t be able to tell Sirius again.   
After all this effort, Remus thought he had feelings for Sirius. Between sharing a bed and wanting to kiss him and running his fingers through his hair the whole night because Remus got affectionate and honest when he was drunk, Remus thought he had feelings for Sirius. He wasn’t in love, because it took him at least a year to fall in love, but he did think he had feelings for Sirius. At first, he was angry at himself for letting that happen, but he was okay with it after that. He thought he could finally handle it and he thought he was in a very good place at that time, so he thought he was safe enough to have feelings for Sirius. He decided to wait a while to let him know.  
He kept remembering one moment from late Friday night/early Saturday morning. They were sat on the edge of Remus’ bed and their friends were kissing in the corner and dancing in front of them and throwing up in the garden. They were on the edge of Remus’ bed, quietly. Remus was leaning on Sirius, listening and laughing. His cheek squashed against Sirius’ shoulder and his fingers in his hair. He kept spreading them out and playing with the long, black strands that were far too soft to be Sirius’. It was so quiet and easy and Remus felt the happiest he thought he had been since he was 6 years old. It was funny how thinking about his happiest moment in 12 years made Remus feel so sad.  
Hope offered to drive Sirius back to his house and Remus went as well so Sirius didn’t have to sit with her alone in the car. They listened to the tape Remus had bought the day before and they didn’t talk because Sirius was exhausted. They got to his house and Remus got Sirius’ things out of the boot to give to him. They had one of their awkward, badly orchestrated hugs and Remus said he loved him, because he did that every time he said goodbye. Just in case it was goodbye. For a second, Sirius paused, like he had been put on the spot.  
“Same.”


End file.
